Page 3 of Mountain Time
“Well, have fun and stay out of trouble down there.”
“We will. Tell your old man hi.”
“I will. Bye, Jack.”
Click.
Fuck.
I might have to ask Carson to put on this shoe and hehatesfarrier work.
Chapter 2
Knox
Oklahoma
The crowd roars with laughter after the rodeo clown finishes his act. It’s one I’ve seen a hundred times but still chuckle at.
“Lawton, Oklahoma, y’all are great,” the clown says, walking back to his barrel.
“Hey, Knox, don’t be a pussy!” Trey yells at me from two chutes down. His navy blue chaps swing around his legs.
“You just worry about keeping your hand shut,” I holler back, standing above my bull.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the chutes are loaded for the final section of bull riding. ARE YOU READY!?” the announcer hypes up the crowd.
“Fifty dollars to whoever places higher?”
Seems like Trey just can’t help himself tonight.
I raise a single brow at him. “You’re on. You sure you got an extra fifty bucks? I only accept cash.”
Trey has been my traveling partner for the last two years. I’d seen him around at some rodeos and he was improving steadily. One day he asked to hop a ride from one rodeo to the next and I thought,Sure why not. What could it hurt? He seems like a nice kid.
He. Never. Left.
Trey’s like a stray dog I fed and now can’t get rid of. He moved in with me a month later. All jokes aside, he has become my best friend. Though a few years younger and still on the wild side, he’s as loyal as they come. Since getting in with me, he’s riding better and even made the finals last year.
Trey hollers something back, but I’ve zoned out—or rather,in. I take a deep breath. It’s the final section, and no one has covered a bull. I have a new bull I know nothing about. He doesn’t even have a name yet, just a brand, “025.” I’m guessing he’s a four-year-old. That wouldn’t put him in his prime yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be easy to ride.
Six guys before me. I take another deep breath, repeating my usual affirmations.
Whatever it takes, keep moving. I came to win. I deserve to win. Over and over in my head.
Three guys before me. I pull my helmet over my head and snap the chin piece in place. Sliding my glove onto my right hand, I have someone behind the chutes pull it back so it’s tight before I pull athletic tape out of my vest pocket and start wrapping my wrist with it to hold my glove in place.
One guy before me. I climb into the chute and tell the guy pulling my rope to pull it tight. I run my gloved hand up and down the tail of the rope in a quick jerking motion to heat up the rosin—a mixture of pine sap, soap, and glycerine—until it’s goodand sticky. I can smell the familiar scent of the hot rosin mixed with the smell of dusty ol’ bulls.
The announcer and clown talk over the mic and the crowd cheers as the guy before me calls for his bull, but I can’t make out a word they’re saying, nor do I care. I’m completely in the zone.
“Whatever it takes, keep moving. I came to fucking win,” I say and let out a growl as if to become just as animalistic as the 1,500-pound beast I’m about to tie my hand to.
I see the latch men move to my chute as I slide my hand in the handle of my rope.
CLANK! KABOOM!
My bull kicks up in the box. I see an arm fly out to catch me, but it’s too late. My head crashes into the slide gate. Before I can grab something solid or get caught by the guy spotting me, he kicks up again, sending my head into the slide. I feel my ankle twist and my knees bounce off every rung of the chute before I finally catch the top rung of the chute and pull my knees up. I hold my position.
